


Our Armour Breaks At Dawn

by eternal_optimist



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, F/M, Female Friendship, Freedom, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebellion, Romance, Slavery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 00:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15013217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_optimist/pseuds/eternal_optimist
Summary: In a galaxy far, far away, a clone wanders far from the life she's always known and finds herself thrust into a rebellion. This is her story.





	Our Armour Breaks At Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> So hi, the people who have been following me on tumblr for a while know that I have been working on this story for a looooong time (and by that I mean a year, haha *cringes*) and like i don't know how this story came to be what it is today but I love it and I can't for you guys to read it :)
> 
> Just a heads up this is only the first part of the story, I am currently working on the second part (that hopefully won't take as long).
> 
> Beta work is by Kelly, who is a godsend

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, there was a girl named Caroline.

Except she wasn't a girl at all.

* * *

 

Her first real memory is of cerulean blues as they form shapes above her head like endless swirls, and the voice of someone speaking, though it's garbled and she can't understand it. It's sterile and cold.

In her faint childhood memories there's a hall, wide and big - she doesn't think her little feet would walk her to its ends even if they tried - and the place is spacious and not at all how a small part of her envisions safety to be.

(What is safety?)

The food she eats never differs no matter what day it is, whether it's Sunday or Monday or Tuesday - oh look she can list the days now. She's getting better at knowing things.

She's not. She just likes to believe she is.

One day, her whole unit stands in a line. They all keep quiet, still as ever but she grows restless, head turning from side to side every few seconds. Four other girls look at her curiously.

In a certain twist of fate, they talk. She thinks she makes _friends_ that day, but she's not really sure.

Each day, they enter a different arena with a task that they have to achieve. Sometimes they observe as others who wear white armor shot at targets with their blasters, lasers red and green as they burn their way through.

The first time she hears the sound it reminds her of a hiss in her ears, a strange sound if she's ever heard one.

It's when she turns ten standard years old that she gets her own weapon and her own armor and-

And, she gets a helmet she never takes off too.

And suddenly it feels like she's thrust into a whole new world. It's “CF-2170 do this and CF-2170 do that” and she's never ever been referred to by her code name before, it has always been squadron 21, squadron 21, squadron 21.

She knows CT-2134, CG-2145, CV-2189 and CA-2163 feel the same way.

Nothing changes and everything does. She learns how to shoot from miles away and still land a perfect hit. Her senses are attuned, her shots are impeccable and even though she _barely_ managed to catch up before, she's now apparently the best.

Or that, at least, is what her records say.

The food changes, it's smaller and more digestible. The data she read - snuck a look at when no one was paying her attention - says it energizes them, a perfect blend of nutrients that increases soldiers’ performances and capabilities, easy to consume even with the small hurdle of their heavy helmets.

She rolls the small pills she's been given and watches as the two colours it's painted with flash as she spins it between her fingers, before she sighs and inserts the small thing in the tiny opening at her mouth.

No one hears the constant chorus of fire the clones send barreling across the factory.

They train and train and train, and at lunch time she and CT-2134 tell the rest of the group about the one joke or four they saw on the holonet - and _shush_ guys it's a secret, no one's supposed to find out.

“Oh really?” CG-2145 says dryly, and she knows her eyebrows are lifted under the black visor of her helmet.

She shrugs her shoulders and laughs, though it comes out hollow through the barrier between her face and the world. “It seemed fun to sneak into the central computer and browse a little.”

What a happy moment for the man-made war machines -

The Republic comes calling and they're all seventeen. But it doesn't matter because it _never_ did.

Here's to the soldiers who lived not.

* * *

 

She wakes up to commands and goes to sleep with the rest of her battalion at the end of the day - if the droids retreat and the mission is successful. Three years come and go. Sometimes they lose, often they win.

She marvels at how the people outside of Kamino look so different from each other and how they never wear the heavy armor before she sighs and remembers that they're clones and these people are not.

(She remembers countless other girls with the same faces as hers in a hallway, young and none the wiser, obediently learning everything they're taught.)

A blaster’s shot misses her by a scratch. The shooter falls dead on the ground from her hit, blood gushing, screams emitting and cold eyes left open that can't close.

It's a scene that repeats itself many times across the field, and she counts the numbers of the separatist fighters who can fight no longer. Her fingers shake when she registers how many clone-troopers lie, unmoving, unbreathing.

Dead, dead, dead.

Squadron 21 loses five of its members that day. Five others replace them so efficiently like there weren’t five hearts that just stopped beating, and she _hates_ them even though she can't see these new soldiers’ faces.

She can't see hers either anymore, but that's besides the point.

The desert exhales sand in a fury as missiles hit it from every angle. The war rages on uncaring. It's her first time she's seen a storm that was not hard rain and black clouds but orange dust instead.

A hail of blaster beams follows them around as they seek shelter; the separatists closing in on them. They are cornered and no matter how much they shoot and resist there's no surviving for them.

Not anymore.

Her arm is hit and then her leg and it hurts so so much - someone make it stop please - and suddenly she trips, falling from the top of the hill, rolling across the sandy ground.

She's going to die.

Maybe she’ll see her friends again.

She doesn't stay awake long enough to see herself falling into the desert’s embrace.

* * *

 

Deafening silence is what greets her when her consciousness returns, night sky encompassing her view. The wind blows strongly, making her shiver from the cold that seems to bite at her skin.

Her muscles ache deeply like they've been through a grinding machine and every bone screams in response when she tries to stand, but she can't just lie back no matter how much she wants to - and she does, she desperately does.

But hard-earned survival instincts make her stand up and try to gain a footing. She makes it as far as six kilometers then her feet collapse from underneath her.

Dust particles fill her lungs and she coughs, unable to breathe. The helmet - the helmet she can not remember a time without - suddenly suffocates her.

It's a reflex, wrenching it away from her head, knocking it far. Gulp after gulp of air rushes into her mouth and she savours the looseness in her chest.

The darkness whistles softly. There are cracks all over the helmet, blood droplets dried on its exterior surface. She shoves her hands against her ears to silence the faint whimpers of her sisters dying.

She cries out when the chipped pieces of her armour dig into her skin, and a thought repeated in CG-2145’s deadpan voice echoes through her: ‘They say our armour is unbreakable’

One by one the pieces of her armour are taken off, only her black bodysuit a shield against the cold, and though it's freezing she feels warmer without them.

CF-2170 continues walking, limping every second as she leans on her uninjured leg, shoulder dull from pain, yes. But she doesn't pause until she reaches the flickers of tiny lights in the distance.

* * *

 

The long street bustles with people all around her, sun bright in the sky. She can't spot a cloud above her and for a moment it makes her miss the weather on Coruscant where the heat was not so unbearable and it did not feel like her skin was itching against her clothes.

The piece of fabric that she found and donned over her shoulder wrestles with the wind but her fingers clutch it tightly. She's starving, stomach gripping its muscles from the ravenous hunger, and she does not want to lose the only semblance of protection she has left.

A woman who seems to be selling some metallic objects spares her a glance before she turns her head away, not noting anything worthwhile, something CF-2170 can not be more grateful for, with the terror tasting like ash on her tongue.

She moves quietly, feet hesitant. She wants to ask where to go to but there's little possibility anyone will answer.

Her feet trip every once in a while. Her stomach growls.

Her hands smooth over it as heat surges through her cheeks. It's just more pain amongst the rest - even if her leg and arm healed only a bit in the last two days (and by healing she means they throbbed for so long they just stopped hurting) - and she just wants water or a piece of fruit or something.

“Psst.”

Her eyes snap to the source of the noise. An elderly lady looks at her - or she thinks she does, but that can't be true; she is not to be noticed.

The woman continues to watch her still.

“You there. Yes, you.”

There's a spike of something that prickles at the back of her mind - it's the very same feeling that roused during her first mission on Yavin, when the faces her troop met to relinquish the separatists’ hold on the planet seemed friendly. She can narrate the battle to the tiniest of details -

(Although she can not truly call it a battle; for the separatists’ blasters did not get the chance to shoot.)

Approaching with nerves pulled to their limits, she stands in front of the woman who quickly looks around to check that no one is paying attention to them.

Apparently satisfied, she pulls out a foil-wrapped plate that she places in CF-2170’s hands.

“There dear. You shouldn't walk around as famished as you are.”

She looks at her, at the woman who has wrinkles around the edges of her eyes. She is exhausted, CF-2170 notices, and not the tiredness that comes from shooting and shooting until one's hands can take no more, but the exhaustion after a battle when traces of blood are coating armour and fingers.

(She first killed when she was seventeen. She did not forget.)

“I have nothing to pay you with,” she says.

The woman smiles. “You don't have to.”

She doesn't understand this, doesn't understand why a stranger who looks like she could use this food herself gives CF-2170 a plate, so warm, and she's _so_ hungry but doesn't that stranger know what she could do, what she has already done with a blaster in her hand?

(Of course not, soldier. Nobody does.)

CF-2170 finds a corner that's well kept in the shadows and away from eyes and sits while the world around her continues. The foil is removed eagerly and the whiff of a hot meal is welcome to her nose.

She can feel her stomach in its anticipation to devour the plate.

Suddenly the people around her quiet down, their breath the only sound audible, she doesn't notice immediately; enraptured in her meal as she is. But eventually she does, her nails digging in the bricks as she looks over the wall she is tucked behind.

A whole troop of familiar white armours stands at the entrance of the market.

A tendril of relief surges through her at seeing the troop, helmets intact and weapons in hand, the stance something she’s seen a million times - there's a chance where she could go back to the factory and hug CV-2189 because she was probably sad and lonely and she missed her and then her arm and leg would not hurt much because back home, there are hoards of bacta tanks.

Her feet stay rooted where they are.

Each of the soldiers walks up to a person and ask them a question, or she thinks they do from the certain edge in the people's stance and how their faces are contorted in fear.

Swallowing, she forces herself to concentrate on the scene occurring in front of her just in time to see the soldier heading for the elderly woman. She watches as the same question she can't quite hear gets asked again.

The woman does not seem scared as the rest do, face relaxed. It's enough for CF-2170 and the tension begins to dissipate from her shoulders as she slides back down and ponders over the sudden onslaught of the clone-troopers.

There's a laser shot, screams color every corner and every wall. She scrambles to her feet as she sees what happened.

The woman lies dead on the floor.

* * *

 

She runs and runs and runs, breath laboured and heart beating with too much speed. Her hands tremble when a considerable distance is between the clone-troopers and her.

There's a prick at her eyes, sharp and wet. She rubs at them, fingers pulling away with water droplets on her skin. Her limbs feel dead.

Everywhere around her, different people are hurrying in every direction, humans and togrutas and countless other species, as machinery and hyperdrives are loaded into ships waiting in their bunkers.

A man a few meters from her speaks to another, says, “We need more people to work on the fields.”

She sees the ship stationed behind both, engines geared to take off, and knows where to head.

* * *

 

The ship is crowded to the brim with people she prays for it to take her out of the planet as quickly as it can. Her heart does not stop with its rapid beating and she fears it's going to jump out of her chest.  
  
The vast blackness of hyperspace calms her if only for a little bit. Her mind keeps replaying the memories, the sound of the blaster, again and again and again.  
  
Perhaps she has broken something in her brain.  
  
She hears claps and murmurs and she looks to see most of the passengers gathered around in a circle. Her eyebrows furrow together, wondering what caused such a commotion.  
  
Her chest constricts at the thought of death following her on this small means of travel.  
  
Cautiously and ever so slowly, she nears the gathering.  
  
Three young men sit on chairs in the middle, everyone's attention on them. She notices the instruments in their hands, recognises them from that time she and CT-2134 stumbled across a holonet article about music.  
  
“Are you ready?” the one on the right says. A great cry of yes answers him back.  
  
Their fingers begin to move so seamlessly and the first tones of music begin to play. Three younglings a few meters from her clap enthusiastically.  
  
The people laugh and clap at the beautiful notes.  
  
(Though the sound is different, the music conjures memories of a time on naboo after a successful battle. The people danced and smiled and they didn't put away their instruments until it was sunrise. She still remembers the way the stars shined.)

* * *

There's a Republic that falls and an Empire that rises and only faintly does she hear of a lost democracy and hushed whispers about killed Jedi.

Vaguely, she recalls cream-coloured tunics, green and blue lightsabers charging on the battlefield, her squadron following.

Don't think of it, her mind whispers. And for once she obeys.

Someone mentions the name of the planet they're on but she doesn't bother to catch it. What does it matter if they were in the mid-rim or stranded on some corner of the galaxy the world wouldn't be able to find?

So much green though.

Her fingernails dig into the soil as she makes a hole to put the seeds in, following the instructions she's been given to perfect detail.

(Perfection is obeying orders on the battlefield with utmost accuracy, no matter the cost. Everybody knows that.)

Orange tulips, the packet in her hands says. She can't wait to see them when they bloom. Learn if the petals will be soft and smooth or wrinkly.

Just a little bit of water and sunshine and some time and then she’ll find out.

All is well.

(All is not.)

* * *

 

She is doing her work, counting the seeds and cataloguing them, trying not to remember her lonely friend, their dead commanders and the sound blasters always, _always_ firing.

(Had it ever stopped shooting?)

Her neighbor, Emily, whose smile is warm, offers her a bottle of cold water to alleviate the burn of the sun’s heat.

She refuses with a thanks; she's endured worse. Though she can’t exactly say the same for the others.

Roses are particularly stunning in the afternoon though, she thinks, stopping to rest and gaze at the red petals.

And then it is like she’s stepped back in time and place to Coruscant when the separatists decided that bombing the whole planet was apparently a good idea and the air had been nothing but breath-quenching ash, heart-stopping panic.

Her mind registers the explosion before her body can; instinct screaming at her to run away but muscles slack from shock. But then, like a switch flicked on, it's run, run, run.

Other farmers and tenders were already making a dash for shelter.

Ankle twisting as another bomb detonates not too far from her, she falls face first on the soil. Her hands brace her and she stands once again, wishing she knew what the hell is going on. This place is supposed to be safe.

(What is safety?)

An armada of star-fighters flies above her, organized and coordinated.

The way her legs shake is not purely out of pain.

Figures jump out of the star-fighters while those ships continue hovering above. The other farmers stop In their tracks, but there are no blasters to shoot laser beams through their hearts.

Some simply rush in the direction of the explosives, while others lead the farmers to the ships and star-fighters settling on the ground.

A hand touches her arm and her eyes snap to see a suit-wearing someone, wonders why the world suddenly has blurred edges.

“Help me,” she whispers and falls to the ground.

* * *

 

When she wakes up, it's to the smell of sanitized air and the constant beeping of machines. Her head aches with its pounding and her eyes don't want to open, a good idea since the line of light burning at her eyelids doesn't promise comfort.

She breathes and her lungs burn with it but a small part of her savours that ache, revels in her solitude.

A sound that vaguely resembles that of a door opening leaves her eyelashes fluttering open. It takes a few minutes for her eyes to adjust to the brightness, a sting burns at the edge of them and a tear escapes.

“Good morning,” a girl says quietly, as if not to startle her. It makes a burst of laughter choke her throat at the irony.

(Don't move. Keep quiet, or they’ll shoot).

She watches warily as the girl moves around the room, fingers clutching the blanket like a lifeline. The girl, with hair bound in curls and a look of concentration on her face walks to the beeping device next to her bedside.

Curious, she notes the red tube that makes its way out of a particularly round machine. A needle connected to it is rooted in the back of her hand.

Like a tape, her brain rewinds. She stares at the metal piece for a moment, then she panics.

She doesn't even think about it. Her body suddenly wrenches itself far, far away from the beeping and the soft bed. Her lungs protest as she falls harshly on the floor and she coughs.

The girl's green eyes flash with something, her feet approaching,but CF-2170 just scrambles further away, knocking over some bottles. The glass crashes and her feet tremble and the needle is still inside her and the tube is ripped open and there is blood _everywhere_.

Hands grip her shoulders but she screams, rushing towards the wall. The girl doesn't follow, just raises her hand in defense. Surrender?

“I don't want to hurt you, I swear.”

Her breath echoes loudly in her ears where there's a shrill ringing pulsing through. Her feet feel like they're slipping from underneath her, her shoulders still shake.

“I just want to help,” the girl breathes out but doesn't come closer.

She drags her eyes over the room, tries to sense any danger - a sort of hysterical giggle that would have came out as a sob bubbles up inside her at the thought, she's always been the worst in her battalion at analysing her surroundings.

She swallows with great difficulty, looks at her hand where the metal was still lodged inside of it, blood streaking her knuckles.

“Can you remove this?”

“Yes, but you'll have to come closer.”

Her feet stay firmly where she is. And there's no knife to be lodged in her throat at her blatant refusal.

“Alright.”

The girl sinks to the floor and sits cross-legged. “I’m Bonnie. What's your name?”

The question is enough to snap her out of her haze. “What?”

“Your name,” the girl repeats, like it's the simplest thing in the world to ask - it's not, it's not - and she has no idea how to reply.

Except she remembers, she does have a name, or at least that's what her registration papers told her. People had not liked it when they spotted her code name written in ink on her wrist.

She mumbles, “It's Caroline.”

* * *

 

She's taken with the machines in a way that her brain calls morbid, but there are no more needles inserted in her body and for that she is thankful.

Bonnie’s smile is easy on her lips and she finds herself envying her, but only a little.

Her shirt and pants are unsalvageable, Bonnie says as she hands her two changes of clothes and proceeds to check her vital organs’ activity. She tries to soothe her restlessness and promises that it's only two more days before she gives her the clear to leave if she wants.

“So what do you do?”

“I'm a medic, occasional spy. Very good with a blaster, so don't mess with me,” Bonnie says the last part jokingly.

CF-201..Caroline is confused though. “How can you be all three things at once?”

The smile turns sour, “desperate measures in desperate times.”

She asks no more.

* * *

 

She's quickly bored by the end of the second day, and the beeping beside her is no longer fascinating.

The sheer whiteness of the walls make her nauseous and she swallows every time she stares too hard.

Coming to a hasty decision, her legs carefully step across the smooth floor and she finds herself outside in a dimly lit hallway where several bodies rush past her.

With a startled breath, she stuffs her hands into her pockets and walks slowly towards the end of the corridor, curiously wondering where all these people come from and go to. Her foot sharply stumbles into a wall she doesn't see in her haze, and she yells sharply, clutching the wall tightly so she won’t slip.

Feeling a pair of eyes on her, her fingers clench. She drags her gaze up slowly until she sees the source.It's just a man sitting on a chair, far enough in the sort-of-a-room that he's almost out of sight. He is looking at her, staring. She can't read his expression, just knows that it's not friendly nor welcoming.

“Sorry,” she mutters, backing away like she hadn't seen him sitting right there.

The door to her room is closed behind her and Bonnie never finds out.

* * *

 

The corridor that bustles and hustles empties in the week that follows. When she asks, Bonnie replies that the ones they rescued have left, and she pretends she doesn't see the way Bonnie’s eyes harden, bitterness brewing.

Why is she staying is the unasked question her mind keeps asking. Maybe she's afraid of another blaster, this time firing through her brain.

(Afraid. How pathetic, trooper.)

Or the more honest truth would be that she has nowhere to go.

She feigns ignorance about the star fighters preparing for battle. If these people want their secrets safe, then it's fine with her; she has hers to protect.

(Like how she knows how to differentiate between her sisters the clones, why she used to hold a weapon and immediately know how to work it because she’d tried _every single one_ in the factory, it's nothing new. Why, without ever really deciding it, white is her least favourite colour.)

Bonnie always comes and talks to her every day and sometimes she thinks of her sisters and how they would have loved her.

“So did you ever go anywhere?” Bonnie asks with the air of a person who sees little of the galaxy.

She thinks of which place to speak of, but she has a question first.

“Bonnie, this is a rebellion, isn't it?”

* * *

 

Her friend talks of freedom and rights like she expects her to comprehend what she's saying. Bonnie speaks of shackles and bloody emperors and war-torn worlds.

War is all she knows.

Rebel, Bonnie says proudly.

Rebel, a corner of her mind curls disdainfully.

“You can be a part of the rebellion, if you want?”

She doesn't really know what she wants, except that she never got to see her tulips grow.

“I'll think about it,” she replies.

Bonnie stays and talks some more.

* * *

 

“I want you to meet some people,” Bonnie says and tugs at her hand as she leads her through so many hallways that her head spins.

“Who?” she asks, while her heart begins to beat faster. People? She can barely talk to Bonnie for more than ten minutes without feeling her tongue become lead.

“You'll see.”

There's a brunette who bustles around a table, data chips thrown haphazardly all over it.

“Hey, Katherine,” Bonnie greets. “Where's Rebekah?”

(Katherine, Bonnie, Caroline, Rebekah, names are strange things.)

Katherine pauses in her work and waves her hand in hello slowly. “Rebekah is reporting.”

“Who’s she?” Katherine nods her head towards her. She resists the urge to flinch.

“This is Caroline.”

(Hello is polite and formal, hi is personal and friendly, good-day to you is for….)

“A new blonde, thank goodness. I was getting bored by the same old brown hair everywhere. I thought of dyeing my hair pink!”

Her nerves stretch thin but she doesn’t react; she has seen herself enough times now, caught the blonde strands and the blue in her eyes on a dusty mirror, that she doesn't recoil instinctively when someone comments on her features anymore.

Bonnie laughs.

(Laughter is an indication of happiness and amusement. Informal language for familiarity and friendship - social communication is stupid and unnecessary and her brain hurts.)

“How are you doing?” Katherine presents her hand to her forward, and she stares, unsure.

“I'm fine,” the words come out of her mouth, and she folds her hands in Katherine’s and shakes them.

Silence coats them like a suffocating blanket, or maybe it's just suffocating to her. She sees Bonnie opening her mouth to say something but the door snaps open and a man - _the_ man - marches inside, standing next to her and Katherine suddenly looks so, so angry.

“What the hell, Klaus?”

“I need chip number 1352,” he orders in a no-nonsense tone but Katherine doesn't look like she's ready to calm down anytime soon.

“Did you ever hear of manners in whatever hole that gifted us with you?”

He gives Katherine a look that can only be described as flat. “The chip, Katerina.”

Instead of getting redder in the face like she presumed she would, Katherine smiles. She gestures to the messy table behind her and tells him, “Get it yourself.”

Katherine laces her arms with hers and Bonnie’s and turns them around. Her body smacks with his, she steps back in haste.

“I’m sorry.” (- Actions as such are considered forms of aggression and hostility.)

Klaus looks at her, unperturbed. “You.”

“You’ve met?” Bonnie asks, wary.

“I saw her lurking around in the hallway a week ago.”

So much for Bonnie never finding out.

* * *

 

“Who is he?”

Bonnie breathes out slowly, “Klaus Mikaelson, rebel intelligence and assassin. Some of my superiors think he's a real asset, I think he’s a psychopath.”

“Psychopath?”

Katherine put her finger next to her head, twists it in a way reminiscent of a bolt being screwed in, and whistles.

Right.

She has absolutely no idea what that means.

“So Caroline, where are you from?”

There's a heavy, sudden weight that drops into her stomach, she struggles to let her face relax, her chest heaving slightly.

Katherine and Bonnie are looking at her, waiting for answers.

“From somewhere. Somewhere far.” She is not lying, Kamino is so far away.

Katherine snorts, “Right, and I'm a rebel.”

Tongue smoothing over the edge of her lips, she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. She doesn't know what else to say. Words have deserted her.

It's a miracle that she manages to find a desire to sleep, with her thoughts running faster than light speed in her brain. What if people kept wondering? What if they found out?

(The clones, her sisters, were commissioned for the imperial army. Maybe...)

(No.)

She sighs, turns the lights off.

She frowns when she hears faint alarm bells ringing from afar, and sits back up. The sound grows louder and clearer.

The light thumping of feet running has her hands gripping for a blaster.

She finds one hidden in the drawers and waits, draws a jacket over the shirt and pair of pants she wears.

That patter of feet moves on from her room, and she relaxes and tenses in the same second, moves towards the door and tries to press the button to open it quietly.

It slides easily enough. The halls are dark but luminous enough that she sees the bodies of dead rebels littering the floor.

“Freeze!”

She swallows, hopes that the soldiers behind her can't see the weapon in her hand, and fitts it behind the panels of her jacket before raising her hands.

“Move, and no funny business.”

Turning her head to her left, her eye catches the white armour, similar yet different. The body fittings are the same but the helmet is of an unusual design.

Good.

Something vicious snaps.

Laser rays trade back and forth between her and the troopers. Two are shot courtesy of her aim but the troopers get their bearings fast, have her running, hiding from their fire.

There are at least twenty of them. What was she thinking?

Or rather, was not?

She hisses as a laser beam misses her by hair's length. Her teeth grind and the heels of her feet push against each other.

She sprints, slams a door or two shut behind her. The constant patter does not relent, and she wishes that she hadn't listened to Bonnie and had explored the place because what would she _not_ give to know the layout of the base right now.

A hand grips her jacket and yanks her backwards. She yelps.

“Sssh,” a voice soothes, a hand clamped over her mouth. Her fists try to give a punch or two.

“Hey-” Her foot has stepped on whoever’s foot this was.

“Honestly, calm down,” the hands turn her around and she sees Klaus, with a look she’s seen on people amidst a battlefield.

“What ar-”

She doesn't get the chance to complete her sentence,

Klaus hushes her sharply.

The static noise of communicators echoes through the walls, and she struggles to drown the noisy stuttering breaths fighting their way in and out of her lungs.

“Check these corridors.” Emotionless, and with a touch of robotism, the commander orders.

She doesn't sigh in relief until the corridor becomes hauntingly silent.

“Come.”

He leads her through ruined walls, the inner structure showing, big boulders blocking parts of the way.

A ship is ready for take off, its engines turning up. Bonnie is standing near the entrance and screams for them to hurry.

A trail of stoormtroopers manage to catch up to them and she doesn't hesitate to shoot them.

(Was this what CA-2163 looked like after she, too, was shot?)

They step inside and the ship rumbles as it soars out of the planet’s atmosphere and launches into hyperspace.

Everyone sighs in relief.

Lots of other people are on the ship, pilots and fighters. Bonnie and a few others keep filtering from one direction to another, tending to the injured and giving out bacta.

Well, she thinks dryly, she's officially a rebel now.

* * *

 

Human nature is fascinating. She watches as a whole new base lights anew with life, deflector shields set up, but there's a resignation there, too, almost a sureness, like everyone knows that sooner or later they'll be on the move again.

The mirror in her hand shimmers and she turns it at different angles, contemplates the length of her hair. It runs across her shoulders.

She stares and stares and stares, until she sees the world through blurred lens and her mind runs with thoughts she doesn't want to analyze any closer.

Blinking, shapes’ outlines grow clearer and she concentrates on the here and now, ignores the echo of battle thundering in her ears.

There are things she can do right now, things she can succeed at.

One, she mentally lists as she helps the technicians set up the communication controls, the wires are fragile, for lack of a better description. She could crush them or tear them apart and the whole thing would come crashing down.

Not a fun thought to have.

Klaus helps the pilots build runways for the star-fighters and she watches at night from a level high above them. Bonnie and Katherine sit with her as they nibble bits of bread.

He meets her eyes once, and impulsively she stares back.

She runs into him days later, they're passing by each other. It's unexpected and CF-21… Caroline doesn't know how to say what she wants to.

So she chooses to be blunt.

“Thank you.”

He stops, turns around to look at her in confusion.

“What for?”

“For not leaving me behind even though it was at a personal risk.”

Soldiers were always left behind. Jedi had a duty to the Republic and so did they; if it's a loss, it's a loss.

He shrugs, “You're a very good shot,” and turns away.

“Katherine says you're a psychopath,” she blurts out, with a tone of accusation in her voice, even though she has no idea what that means, but it doesn’t seem nice.

Klaus chuckles.

“Did she now?”

Narrowing her eyes, she replies, “Yes.”

He ponders thoughtfully. “I can't say I have ever been called that to my face before.”

* * *

 

She forces herself not to panic and shudder and openly have a seizure in a room - not quite a room, more of a secluded corner that everyone knows not to disrupt. The digital screens and correspondents working on them form broken bits of a wall - with the dignified senators and the rebel soldiers and droids far in the background.

“Miss Caroline,” the one who is very pretty and impeccably dressed, who looks very much out of the picture says. “You'll be accompanying Agent Mikaelson. Your job is to infiltrate the military base we’ll entrust you with. There is information in the data vault; plans and numbers about the exact size of the imperial army, the weapons they're working on and possibly new development.”

She can do this, she thinks. She's done it many times before. And Klaus looks like the kind of person who has too. He may have, but he is not pleased; one look tells it all.

The captain relays the plan to them in cool, clear words and a part of her, the one with more intimate knowledge of a blaster and a cannon than any other in the room, snaps to attention.

She takes the backpack and checks and rechecks everything, the shooter in the hidden zipper, the ration bars and the packets of dried shaura fruit. The hidden knife in the short heel of her boots rests safe.

“I don't understand,” she tells Bonnie who sits besides her and helps. “Why use me for this job especially? I can tell it's high-risk.”

Bonnie grins comfortingly, “I said you were an excellent shot and strangely enough, Klaus agreed.”

She smiles tightly, sometimes that was all she's worth.

* * *

 

On the mission, she finds herself reprimanded by her companion more often than not, too busy staring at the different merchandise in the stalls. The air on the populated planet is filled with a certain energy she can't articulate.

It reminds her of Coruscant.

She misses it, strange as it sounds, the busy lines of citizens as they rushed to do their daily chores. A unit mate of hers had been assigned to city patrol once and described those dashing with wonder.

_Not even war stops them._

So she basks in the strange wonder, the busy-smelling street. Her teammate keeps on scowling.

She contemplates asking him why before deciding that she is not up for exercising social norms today. She can barely keep her hands from shivering as it is.

“Stay close,” he snaps, even though there’s barely a meter between them and it's hard not to openly yell in the street at his tone because honestly has he ever heard of what the word team means?

It's not treating your partner like an infant, she could tell him that with certainty.  There's something on the tip of her tongue that's bursting to get out. Something rash and probably stupid an-

She hears the whirr of a machine gun and moves so fast, so suddenly, a pop faintly sounds in her neck.

Klaus’s hand grips her arm tightly before she can fully spin around.

“Normally I'd appreciate such fast reflexes,” he says as he adjusts the shawl around her head. It's a gesture that she'd seen a man do back during gardening time with his wife, loving and concerned. Here it’s a cover, she knows, to ensure no one gets suspicious. “But all that is doing is marking us,” he finishes.

She looks away and doesn't give a response. He is right, of course, but it's not like she can control when her alertness switch flickers on.

“Come on,” he sighs when the silence drags.

* * *

 

They slip in and out of the main city with as much care as they can. The people’s backs bend low with a weight she can't identify. Her blaster is a relief against her thigh.

Still, they manage to pick up some answers and hear rumors. It's not valuable information but it's useful nonetheless.

It helps them move around the city, at least, sneaking inside the facility and blending in, much as Klaus would disagree.

She doesn't feel guilty for spending a few credits over local food in celebration. It's a good start for her, all things considered.

* * *

 

Giddiness threatens to engulf her when they return back. She wakes up and goes to back to sleep with a rush that fills her veins and makes her dizzy.

She did it, she keeps thinking, over and over. She did it and came back with results and for the first time she understands the term elation.

Strange how concepts that were once incomprehensible could feel so real.

The white-armours she's seen come to the forefront of her mind but she pushes it back. It's not a thing she wants to ponder, the possibility of her sisters being under helmets that once suffocated her.

Sometimes she just wanted to forget. Was it selfish of her?

Well, sometimes she didn't care.

* * *

 

“So what is your secret?”

The word secret has her snapping her head up and glaring at Klaus. “Why do you want to know my secrets?” she asks, seriousness laced in every word.

Klaus blinks and smiles lazily at her. “You intrigue me.”

She is, understandably, confused.

“You stopped on your way back to base to buy _blue puffed cubes,_ Caroline, back from a highly dangerous mission might I add. You don’t strike me as the stupid type so I have yet to find a suitable reason for your actions.”

“They smelled nice?”

She is torn between blurting out ‘duh’ - a valuable expression she's learned from Katherine, an expression she's come to adore and use excessively, much to Bonnie’s annoyance - and hiding her flaming cheeks in embarrassment.

(Not that they're on fire, Bonnie keeps reassuring her that's how people usually describe them. It’s a...metaphor, she said.)

Her troop mates had often teased her mercilessly about her deep adoration for food, sometimes the commander had too, often with less teasing and more sternness.

Seems like that habit stuck.

On an impulse she tells him, “I ate them once with some people I knew on Naboo, the taste reminded me of them.”

* * *

 

Days pass and weeks move on. Her hands don't shake as much as they used to when conversations last longer than she feels comfortable with. Bonnie introduces her to more people than she bothers to count.

There's an Enzo and a Kol - who is Klaus’s brother and makes her smile a lot - there's Tyler and Jasmin and Jamila, the girls are quite a mystery to her. Quiet and unassuming but funny too.

She list their names in her mind, on the walls, on her hand. Wonders at how there's not a single number in them.

Sometimes she scratches that tiny spot on her wrist in comfort; when Bonnie asks her questions and Katherine persists for answers. When Kol cracks a joke during lunch in the big eating room and lines of rebels laugh and she doesn't get it.

When she and Klaus work together on an assignment that takes days and she manages to still stand straight but he sighs and sits down, signs of exhaustion on his face, and she feels him looking at her.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

He raises his eyebrows in amusement, “Like what?”

“I don't know. I am asking you.”

This time he chuckles. “You're very strange.”

She looks down, feeling like this should be _her_ line. Do these people sometimes not notice what they do? How unorganized they are for instance?

Scowling at the crumbled piece of paper to her left, she picks it up and tosses it into the rubbish. Klaus quirks his lips and she pretends she doesn’t notice.

* * *

 

“So they're just going to what? Invade the whole area and hope it all works out for the best?” Rebekah is skeptical and sarcastic and she can't say she doesn't feel the same. Of all the crazy plans she's been privy to, this one ranks pretty high on her list.

“That's the plan.”

Katherine just sighs and groans. “Welcome to madness intervention, sponsored by our beloved rebellion. Guaranteed to have your loved ones killed, your homes destroyed and your hopes dashed to the ground.”

“Katherine,” Bonnie snaps but doesn't say more. They all know what's she wants to say, have heard it a million times. _It's for a cause, it's what we're fighting for._

She thinks that Bonnie repeats this more for her benefit than theirs.

“Don’t please, Bonnie,” Katherine says. “My sister died in one of these crazy stunts, remember? So excuse me if I don't have much tolerance for them.”

“Well you're not the only one who’s lost family,” Bonnie stands up and yells, planting her hands so firmly on the wooden surface of the table, it rattles. Caroline starts and shoots a furtive glance at Rebekah, who looks equally concerned, but neither steps in.

“Yes, yes, your _senator_ _grandmother_ who died a heroic death fighting for the stupid cause. Haven't we _all_ heard the tale a thousand times and then some. Well, I hate to break it to you, _princess_ but not all of us have the luxury of a grand funeral.”

Katherine then closes her mouth sharply as if only realizing what she's just said. Bonnie on the other hand, doesn't say a single word, her face marble and hard stone, shooting heated glares.

The door slides open and Jasmin and Jamila smile at them all serenely, but Caroline spots their worried demeanour as their eyes rest a bit longer on Bonnie and Katherine who avoid each other's stares more than they would have otherwise.

“You should all come to the main station hall now.”

“The ones headed out on the mission should be back in a few hours,” Jasmin adds.

* * *

 

Everyone waits at the big entrance in various stages of calm and distress. And by everyone, it's _everyone._

The shooters form the first line of defense, weapons at the ready and prepared for any sneak attacks that could make their way in. The medics whom Bonnie is in charge of check their tools, painkillers in generous packets for those who'll be injured. Even the mechanics are there.

She spots Tyler, a weapon specialist with whom she’s enjoyed many talks with about their shared extensive knowledge on barrel sight to aspect ratio and their favourite models and waves at him. He cheerily waves back.

And behind all these forlorn expressions is a mix of anticipation, hope and fear mingled together. They are all waiting, either for their people to come in shouting their victory or for the imperial forces to flatten to the ground.

An hour passes, and restlessness weaves in tightly in their spines. She can see everyone's nerves are frayed.

The metall doors slide open, a groaning sound filling the place, knees tense up and the clicks of blaster signaling the safety off fill up the place.

“We did it people,” it's a single voice that speaks but it echoes through like a thunderstorm. “We took back the damn city.”

People cheer and laugh with relief.

“And don't forget our biggest prize,” Klaus says as he comes to the front. “We caught one of our friends.”

A clonetrooper - with her white armour, too white, she dimly thinks - is dragged across the floor.

And it's like an out-of-body experience, these next few moments, she sees the few officers walking towards them but doesn't react.

She sees pieces of their armour being taken off as the new prisoners are rid of any offensive gadgets or protection. Her face still holds the same expression.

She breathes regularly, her hands do not flinch, her eyes are dry and do not prickle with tears.

A person screams when the face is revealed, too identical to her own for anyone to ignore, it's a sort of a muted thing amongst her blur-tinted vision.

She wants to think her expression is peaceful, serene.

CF-2170 is not surprised when a syringe of a sleep-inducing drug is plunged into her arm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again this is only the first part, no way I am ending the story after THAT. 
> 
> Please, please tell me what you think, I am so anxiously waiting for your reviews.
> 
> Have a lovely day ♡


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